


Of Conduit Dreams and Changes of Hearts

by Eruanna_the_Fool



Series: A Moment of Trust [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreams and Nightmares, Drunken Confessions, Gen, Good Mordred (Merlin), Leave whilst you still can, Light Angst, Maybe - Freeform, Merlin Leaves Camelot (Merlin), Merlin and Mordred will finally have, Merlin appears in this, No Silmarillion references here I swear, POV Mordred, Season/Series 05, The Talk, This is gonna get weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28407813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eruanna_the_Fool/pseuds/Eruanna_the_Fool
Summary: At every call and mention of ‘Merlin!’ his attention is stolen, and though he tried to be subtle about it, everyone knew of his enigmatic idolatry. If Mordred will be asked – not that anyone will,gods spare them the shame– it is no more enigmatic than it is stupid. He was wildly aware that Merlin will bite at him should he tread too close, and he didn’t know why.If he would just tell me.The reason why – he figured out the night before Imbolc.
Relationships: Elyan & Merlin (Merlin), Elyan & Mordred (Merlin), Gwaine & Mordred (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Mordred (Merlin)
Series: A Moment of Trust [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073396
Comments: 10
Kudos: 133





	1. The Dreams of the Druid

**Author's Note:**

> There will be multiple chapters to this one.

When Mordred was a child, he was taught by the Elders to be vigilant even in sleep. For even though the druids preferred the peaceful life, they cannot escape the grueling fingers of chaos. For when men were created, they were spun with the threads of silence and noise, of day and night, of light and darkness, of order and chaos. And so when he dreamt, he dreamt prepared. He knew when to still his hand and when to clench them to wakefulness.

Druids were creatures of magic, and when they drift into dreamful slumber, their souls could be touched by the Higher Beings – either a caress or a warning.

But Mordred himself dreamt like every other ordinary child did. Mundane fantasies warped by the mind, distant memories almost forgotten, vague faces fading in and out. And if he envied the other druid children for waking one morning with bleary eyes, a vision of earthly gifts and a future of gold and red, he soon forgot the feeling when old Caradawc sat him with honey and bread; and heard of the woes of a lad touched by the gods _once_ and the terror that ever clouded his eyes every time he would go to bed from then on.

He did not have a conduit dream until he was touched by Emrys.

He was barely thirteen winters old; too young to entwine with the presence of pure unguarded magic, but old enough to place a barrier between his magic and Emrys’. And indeed if he hadn’t, he would have unintentionally burst forth the tendrils of his own, which could be dangerous to himself and to others present. He was wounded gravely, but was saved by Emrys himself and the Lady Morgana.

And then when he thought his very existence inside the citadel walls (whose king treated unkindly any vessel of magic) would be revealed, the king’s son proved his nobility and escorted him back to the druids.

The night of his return, he slipped into a timeless field where he was only a watcher. He dreamed of a red day – a day of spilt blood and anguished hearts. In that dream he saw black beady eyes staring straight at his, daring him to close his eyes as crows wheeled above his head. A weight pulled him down, as if his body was laden with a bag of thousand rocks, and his movements were so slowed it felt as if he was walking straight through inky red fog.

He heard a caw as a black bird flew past his left ear, and he was startled into his knees. He tried to get up but found that he couldn’t, and that was when he felt it: a mighty golden power that surrounded him like air – but this time the magic seemed angry, and instead of blanketing him with its warmth and purity, it closed against his throat, forbidding him from breathing.

As he looked up he saw the field scattered with corpses – victims of war who fought until their last breaths. And from the red fog that rose from the very ground he saw through hazy eyes blood-soaked robes. And the man who wore them wielded a tall staff, and his face was revealed to him in its youth, but the eyes were replaced by icy golden orbs. Tall above him stood Emrys – young yet ancient at the same time, and when he watched closely the movements his body made, he found that they were very, _very_ tired.

He tried to raise his arm to grasp at the man, at the ground – grasp at _anything_ – for in that moment he felt like sinking straight through the soil. But his arms remained atop his knees. And Mordred felt very, _very_ scared. But he couldn’t do anything but look for he was only a watcher in his own dream. And he was unprepared despite his preparations.

_“Did your hatred overcome your love?”_ said Emrys. Thunder rolled overhead, then Mordred woke up gasping.

* * *

When Mordred met Emrys again, he was not the same person. He still held purity of magic, but he was no longer innocent. He felt powerful and gentle, but looked uncertain and heavy-hearted. Mordred felt fear, which swiftly turned to spite. Emrys had tried to kill him.

_“I shall never forgive this, Emrys, and I shall never forget.”_

And he never did forget.

* * *

The next time they met, Mordred was already tried by the ways of the world. He was experienced. Hardened by the cruelty of life. Emrys still looked as beautiful and twice as strong. But Mordred did not miss the look of fear in his eyes that replaced that of recognition. And he was saddened that after all the years, the time of peace between them has not yet come to pass.

_“You fear me, Emrys, don’t you?”_

But he need not answer for his eyes gave away what Mordred wished to know. And truly, it _saddened_ him.

* * *

Mordred found a home in Camelot. In truth, he never intended to receive such honour that was given to him by King Arthur, for he stopped hoping for the big, nice things in life. He settled for anticipating the simplest means of survival; for hope grows, and hope eventually turns to aching. But he was rewarded, anyway. When the king offered him knighthood, he did not give one moment’s hesitation though Emrys seemed horrified at the premise. But this was the change he was waiting for, and possibly the only chance for change he will get. So Emrys would have to deal with it. Although, not so secretly, he hoped to gain his friendship by the end of the day.

Mordred was used to being shunned out, got used to rejection, and side-eyed stares. But even now that everyone seems to love him (for truly, the knights and the king himself liked his youthful presence in the castle), his heart ached for the trust of one man.

At every call and mention of ‘ _Merlin!_ ’ his attention is stolen, and though he tried to be subtle about it, everyone knew of his enigmatic idolatry. If Mordred will be asked – not that anyone will, _gods spare them the shame_ – it is no more enigmatic than it is stupid. He was wildly aware that Merlin will bite at him should he tread too close, and he didn’t know why. _If he would just tell me._

The reason why – he figured out the night before Imbolc.

He went to bed in high spirits, having successfully returned from a jousting round with Sir Elyan and some other knights. His first jousting experience. As much as it was sating, he was bone-tired from sitting atop a saddle all day, sauntering around and hitting each other with sticks until after the sun went down.

That night he dreamt once again of the red day, and in his panic, he tried to get out of it. But to no avail. The same dream, but this time, untouched by a Higher Being and laced with ungodly distortions only a human mind can come upon.

_The sun was covered in smoke, and a fog hung over the blood-soaked field. The stench of death wafted through the still air, choking him, choking, choking, choking. But just as he was going to pass out a crow cawed loudly as it flew past his right ear, bringing him to his knees._

_Mordred’s heart raced against his chest, which burned from the lack of air. His tongue thickened, and his throat felt parched, and his eyes stung as it was forced open by staring, beady eyes. The crow across from him bent its head around slowly, and the others followed in sync. As beaks opened to let out a chorus of caws, thunder boomed in its place._

_And suddenly it was raining, soaking the ground with thick ropes of red, passing through Mordred’s gritted teeth, burning his nostrils with the stench of metal._

_“You fear me, Mordred, don’t you?” said Emrys. When Mordred turned to look him in the eyes, they were glowing with magic, and he felt his own responding, his eyes glowing a dimmer hue. But his own magic_ burned _him; it felt foreign and filthy and he wanted it to stop, but he had no control._

_“Please! Merlin, it burns!” Mordred sobbed pitifully._

_At first, there seemed to be no change to Merlin’s face. But then the edges of his lips twitched, and then ever so slowly, slowly, slowly, he smiled. But he need not answer for his eyes gave away what Merlin wished to know._

_“Please, please, please,” cried Mordred as he felt golden light flow down his cheeks, feeling strangely like the thick ropes of rain around him._

_Merlin, with an indifferent pout, raised long fingers to point behind Mordred’s head, and Mordred’s head snapped back without his will. “DID YOUR HATRED OVERCOME YOUR LOVE?”_

_Merlin’s voice sounded like a hundred boulders scraping downhill, metal burning against metal, Unnamed Things grinding and wiping and screeching all at once. And when the light behind Mordred’s eyes faded, he saw an army of undead crows coming for him, to claw them out._

When Mordred awoke, it was only two candlemarks past midnight. He stayed hugging his knees against his chest until it was light enough to go out.


	2. The Heart of Mordred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have updated at long last. Unbeta’d, as usual.

Whatever it was Mordred intended to do when he entered the wine cellar was lost to him by the time he stepped foot on the threshold. Blinking owlishly, he feigned being occupied by rapping his knuckles against a shabby oak barrel – however it looked to the servants bustling about was unimportant. Or so he told himself.

Tilda, the maid with the poppy headscarf, was the first to look away from the wayward knight. Mordred grinned awkwardly to the others and hoped the reddening of his cheeks will go unnoticed. Luckily for him, the servants have much to do, and he was forgotten quickly as he appeared in the stuffy cellar. Mordred was supposed to be as occupied as them, if only he could remember where his rightful destination is and what duty awaits his presence.

Stepping away from the Nemethian wine barrel with a last appreciative tap, Mordred sighed and turned to the direction of the stone steps leading away from the castle storeroom.

The hallways were flocked with errand runners and household staff, more than usual, but that is to be expected what with the upcoming merriment at sundown. The castle itself was brimming with energy, and yet Mordred found it difficult to function in harmony with the others. A hand clamped his right shoulder, making him jump. Not flinch, not retract, but _jump._

“Sir Mordred, where the hell are your trousers?”

If he thought he could not be more horrified, he was clearly proven wrong. He looked down so quickly his hair flopped back into his forehead a split-second later. White-faced and embarrassed, Mordred glared at an amused Elyan.

“Sorry,” muttered Elyan. _No, you are not,_ thought Mordred morosely. “You seem be walking dead on your feet.”

Mordred did not think he should forgive Elyan yet, but he is tired despite the sun not even reaching its peak, so he let the trouser dilemma drop. If it was a different day, perhaps he would have pretended to be offended, but he could barely remember where he is supposed to place his foot over the other. Where is he supposed to go again? The king freed this day of training, did he not? So what is he supposed to be doing?

Elyan cast him a worried glance. “Are you alright?”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

Elyan nodded. “Why don’t you take the time to sleep now?”

Mordred shifted. They were standing by the edge of the courtyard now, and no one seems to be paying attention. The last of the snow ceased earlier this year, surprising an early rousing of the bumblebees and the cacophony of frogs in the evenings. Even now the spring sun rises gracefully, reflecting off the marble of the statues, so unlike the day in his dream that he contemplated just spending the day out in the sun.

“I find it difficult to drowse when it’s light outside,” said Mordred. “What brings you here? I’m not stopping you from citadel business, am I?”

“Oh, no!” said Elyan, extending his arms to show his casual attire. “I meant to see Merlin, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

Mordred tensed visibly, and Elyan noticed. He raised a brow but did not comment on it.

“He’s probably working on his courtship letter.”

Mordred raised a brow. “Courtship letter?”

Scratching the back of his head, Elyan looked every bit sheepish as he conceded. “I don’t think Merlin would appreciate me sharing that information.”

“To me, no less,” muttered Mordred under his breath. He did not expect that Elyan will say more, but he suspected the idea of Merlin courting someone was much too precious for some that he could not hold back gossiping.

“You see, Merlin might be seeing someone. It was just the early hours of dawn, and I can’t sleep, so I went down to Gaius’s to get a draught,” said Elyan. Mordred could not possibly imagine what prompted Elyan enough to wake Gaius for a sleeping draught in the early hours of morning. “I found Merlin poring over a parchment – stretched, he looked – as if he’s running after a deadline. I don’t think he heard me come in – yeah, Mordred, the doors aren’t barred – and when I announced my presence, it was as if he’s seen a ghost. He hid the parchment and asked me what I needed so I took the draught and made to leave. Fortunately, Gaius awoke and gave me the _correct_ bottle.”

Mordred’s eyebrows creased further. “And what made you think it was a courtship letter?”

Elyan let out a merry laugh. “He was clutching a lady’s kerchief. Purple, trimmed with gold. He was holding it as if it’ll vanish should it slip away. But it’s not just that. He was singing softly. I couldn’t understand the words but it made me feel. . .” At this, Elyan’s face changed into something warm and content. “. . .a sense of love and loss.” The knight shook his head. “What a surprise.”

Then Elyan shrugged. “I should go. Good luck on your quest to sleep, Mordred. I’m sure Gaius wouldn’t begrudge you a draught. After all, he did not so much as huff at me for asking for one two candlemarks past midnight.”

Mordred shivered despite the warm weather.

* * *

By twilight, the banquet hall simmered with all kinds of folk (with the exception of the obvious), eager for the most anticipated feast of Camelot. Children ran amok in between pillars, nobles arrived in pairs wearing the fanciest reds and whites, and servants dashed hither and thither with a renewed vigour. Imbolc is a celebration for everyone.

When the king and queen arrived at the hall, the people have mostly settled down. Hand-in-hand they represented regality and harmony, the king’s red complimenting the queen’s yellow and vice versa. If the people stared in awe, they would not be shamed for it, for the kingdom missed having a queen, and despite the initial protests, they all knew that there could not be anyone better for the welfare of Camelot, and of her lord.

Mordred sat on a high table reserved for the knights, adorned in the livery of guard of the citadel, and fitting perfectly amongst the others. He cannot help but feel easier despite the lingering weight in his gut, for there is an air of familiarity in the air that could only be found in the druid settlements. But he did not feel homesick.

_Camelot is home._

The curtains were changed the day before to fit the theme of the holiday, and the entire hall was littered with springtime flowers of yellow, blue, and lilac. Even then they fit in wonderfully, basking in the yellow light of the many candles in their holders. The midst of the hall was bereft of chairs and tables, obviously intended for hosting the dancing couples later. Not that Mordred likes to dance.

King Arthur stood, and the hall fell silent.

“I am glad that you have come here tonight to join us in celebration of Imbolc. This evening marks the beginning of not only springtime, but a change in the lives of those who thrive in good and candor. As the daffodils bloom, so does hope in the hearts of men,” began Arthur.

A certain dark-haired man hurried past the backdoor and behind the king, snatching a pitcher of watered-down wine tightly to mask shaking hands. Queen Guinevere hid a smile by ducking her head.

“As much as I am sure it will be welcomed, I shall not keep you waiting with a lengthy speech. I invite everyone to raise a goblet for new beginnings and a prosperous life.” Arthur finished his speech with a raised goblet. He did not fail to notice Merlin’s lateness, as usual.

“Merlin, where the hell have you been?” When Merlin’s mouth just twitched, Arthur noticed how exhausted he looked and raised an eyebrow.

“Does it matter? I’m here now, aren’t I?” said Merlin, flashing a charming grin. Arthur rolled his eyes but said no more. Instead, he extended his hand so the servant could fill his goblet with wine.

When Arthur turned away, Merlin visibly sagged in relief, only to stiffen once again when his eyes met Mordred’s across the hall. There is something in that blue-eyed gaze that made the knight stifle the urge to bounce his knee under the table. He held it for a while before looking down at his unfinished meal, feeling the cold from his dream return with an intensity.

Gwaine clapped him on the back lightly (lightly for Gwaine, at least), trading his goblet of water with wine. “You look down, my friend. Here, it’s unwatered – a cure for all ills, I call it.” The accompanying wink made the boy flush. He muttered a quick ‘thank you’ then downed the whole goblet.

This will be a night to remember.

* * *

“I’ve never seen you so open, Sir Mordred,” said Leon, smiling fondly.

Mordred laughed. “Imbolc makes an honest man out of me!”

“It seems so,” Leon responded with a shake of the head. “Oh, are you going now?”

Mordred’s cheeks were flushed evenly, and his shy smile made it look even brighter. “I am spent, weak, and wanting.” He joked.

The remaining knights at the table laughed boisterously as their youngest trudged out of the hall. Indeed, he had drunk more than his fill. His vision swam dangerously when he reached the second landing. He almost crashed headfirst against the floors of the corridor when an arm wrapped behind his shoulders. “Let me help you.”

Mordred was beyond surprised. “Emrys.”

Merlin hissed. “Don’t call me that here.” The words were said with unnecessary harshness as the man looked out for anyone who might have overheard, and Mordred stumbled away from his grip.

Merlin turned back to him with a frown.

Mordred should be used to it by now. The biting words only he understood, the heated glares when he thought he wasn’t looking, the cold demeanor in which he addresses him with. He is used to it by now but that did not mean he did not feel _hurt._

_Why?_

He must have been more intoxicated than he first thought because at that moment, his lips trembled with long-suppressed emotions. “Even now I disgust you that you can’t even bear to hear me say your name,” he said with bated breath, voice thick with accumulated fear and sadness.

Merlin pressed his lips into a thin line. “No, you’re wrong. I know you are not in a fit state right now, but you must understand my precaution.”

Mordred leaned his back against one wall. “Do you not know how you hurt me?”

“Mordred, there is no -” Merlin was cut off with a heartbreaking noise coming from the younger’s chest.

“Do you not know how much I adore you, that I will do anything to prove my loyalty to you?” The sob was unmistakable this time. The hitch in his breathing made it difficult to speak, and he felt like a child again. Alone, misunderstood, hated for a reason he did not know, crying in the dark when it gets too much. “You see me as a threat? Why? Do you fear that I will try to overthrow your favour? Because I would never dream of it!”

At this, Merlin’s voice hardened. “You do not understand what you are fated to do.”

Mordred pulled at his hair with a bitter laugh. “ _Fated to do?_ You condemn me for something I have not yet done?”

“And I will make sure it will not be.”

“Then give me a chance! Allow me to prove that I will never do whatever you fear I will!” shouted Mordred.

“You can’t change destiny,” said Merlin calmly, but his fists were clenched and his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Then what is it? What do you fear so much that will overcome my love!”

“The prophecy speaks of Arthur’s Bane, and it is _you,_ Mordred!” yelled Merlin. “I will not see it done, whatever the price, I’ll take it!”

Mordred’s face fell even more. Tears were streaming down his face. In a soft voice, he declared, “Your inability to trust will be the end of Arthur.”

Merlin staggered back with horror written all over his face. Then, he sprinted away, leaving Mordred alone in the deserted corridor.

* * *

Mordred fell asleep instantly when his head hit the pillow, not bothering to take off the livery of knights. He was not sure what time it was, but he had a vague memory of Merlin entering his chamber at the dead of night. He awoke cradled in Merlin’s arms, still muddled with sleep. Again, he felt like a child, but this time, not in a dreadful way.

“I am sorry, Mordred,” Merlin whispered against his hair. “I am sorry for putting you through all that.”

Mordred sniffed pitifully. “Tell me to leave Camelot, and I will.”

Merlin just looked at the stars outside with a sad smile. “I want you to stay. At Arthur’s side. I want you to protect him, as you’ve sworn you will.”

Mordred looked up at him.

“I trust you.” Placing a kiss upon Mordred’s bow, he helped him out of his armour and boots, tucking him back to bed. Mordred was already asleep when he left, and a peace that was never before settled between the two of them.


End file.
